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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908655">the storyteller's muse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KicktheMatt/pseuds/KicktheMatt'>KicktheMatt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragalia Lost (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, Other, Sylas is nonbinary no i do not take criticism, hello ao3 i hope you're ready for my sylwin bullshittery :)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 02:14:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KicktheMatt/pseuds/KicktheMatt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“‘Our story begins, as many do, with a dreamer. A young storyteller, whose work brought light to many. The words he wrote and the pictures he painted gifted joy to those who had the pleasure to view them, giving them an escape from a world hard and cruel’.” A soft chuckle surfaced from the aromatician. “The storyteller reminds me of a certain Sylvan I know.”</p>
<p>Norwin laughed alongside them, bashfully. “Does he?”</p>
<p>“A tad,” they teased, turning back to the story.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>alternatively titled: matt's sylwin propaganda spreads from twitter to ao3. none of you are safe.</p>
<p>warnings: none!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Norwin/Sylas (Dragalia Lost)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the storyteller's muse</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>they/them sylas rights.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beakers bubbled and popped, heated over low flames as the herbs steeped within their carrier oils. Sylas sighed, wiping a hand across their forehead. Everything thus far had gone smoothly.</p>
<p>A striking smell of lavender floated amongst the room, a sign of the aromatic brewing. The aromatician went to the nearby window, pushing the curtains aside and opening it, allowing the room to air out. Lavender was a wonderful smell, but they would be the first to admit that it could be quite strong if too concentrated.</p>
<p>They pulled their ponytail out from its clip, running their fingers through their hair, untangling what they could. The midday sun peered through the glass, casting over their workstation. They walked over to it, turning the burner down. The bubbling began to cease. </p>
<p>As they began to clean their workstation, they heard a knock upon their door. One of their ears turned, catching the noise. It was a familiar knock, one they had grown rather fond of, truly-- <i>rappity rap-tap</i>, short, sweet. Just loud enough that Sylas could hear. </p>
<p>“Sylas?” A familiar voice asked from beyond the stained walnut, “Are you in?”</p>
<p>The Sylvan quickened their tidying, shifting papers over and quickly organizing vials of oils. “One moment, Norwin,” they called. They backed away from the workstation, satisfied with the somewhat-cleaner disarray, and went to greet their guest.</p>
<p>In Norwin’s hands, he held a stack of pages, not yet bound. A manuscript, Sylas figured. The author asked for their feedback frequently, when it came to his written works. </p>
<p>He gripped the pages somewhat fervently, his thumb running across the smooth, flavescent parchment. “I hope I haven’t arrived at an inconvenient time,” he began, a small, dusted flush upon his cheeks, hidden in the shadow of his hood.</p>
<p>“No, not at all. I was just finishing up an aromatic, actually,” they assured. “Is that another story?” Sylas asked, pointing towards the pages, a soft smile upon their face.</p>
<p>“Yes, indeed,” Norwin responded, “I...might need some input on the ending.”</p>
<p>Sylas opened the door further, inviting Norwin inside. “I’d be happy to read it.” They crossed the room, walking towards their bed. Sitting upon it, they patted the space next to them.</p>
<p>Norwin quietly followed suit, handing the pages to Sylas. “Read it aloud, if you’d like,” he said, a smile on his face. “I do hope you’ll enjoy it.”</p>
<p>The aromatician looked at the title page, their fingers running along the paper. “<i>The Storyteller’s Muse</i>,” they read, smiling softly. They looked up towards Norwin. “The title is already fascinating,” Sylas commented, shifting the first page to the end of the stack. They straightened out the pages before beginning to read.</p>
<p>“‘Our story begins, as many do, with a dreamer. A young storyteller, whose work brought light to many. The words he wrote and the pictures he painted gifted joy to those who had the pleasure to view them, giving them an escape from a world hard and cruel’.” A soft chuckle surfaced from the aromatician. “The storyteller reminds me of a certain Sylvan I know.”</p>
<p>Norwin laughed alongside them, bashfully. “Does he?”</p>
<p>“A tad,” they teased, turning back to the story. “‘The storyteller had talent unimaginable, and strove to write the best story he could every day. However, he was one day struck by a fateful curse-- He could neither produce words nor pictures. Sitting at his writing desk, he could hardly get a word or two out on the page. Staring at the easel, lost within the white of the canvas, he became utterly unable to create the stories that so many had come to love. And in this way, he felt as if...he had lost his purpose’.”</p>
<p>Norwin had crossed one leg over the other, fingers tapping nervously against his knee.</p>
<p>Sylas continued on. “‘One day, after the storyteller had spent countless, sleepless nights producing nothing, he went to the woods to think. A stroll amongst the trees would do him good, he figured. He stood before the woods’ edge, preparing to take a step in, when he heard the snap of a branch’...I fear for this protagonist, Norwin. Is it a fiend?”</p>
<p>The author smiled, shaking his head. “Read on, and you’ll find out.”</p>
<p>After a breath, they continued. “‘The young storyteller whipped his head round, looking for the source of the noise. And, from within the trees, he saw a dryad-- A spirit of the forest-- with twigs sticking every which way from their hair and a large bundle of lavender in their arms’...” They trailed off, looking towards Norwin silently. </p>
<p>The illustrated dryad looked like them.</p>
<p>They recalled a day that reminded them of this.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Who goes there?” Norwin called, peering through the brush.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sylas stepped forward, softly, lifting a branch above their head to look out into the clearing. Within their arms was a bundle of lavender, as they locked eyes with Norwin, standing yards away.</i>
</p>
<p>They remembered such a time like it was yesterday.</p>
<p>Sylas turned back to the story.</p>
<p>“‘He called out to the dryad, who looked shocked at seeing one of the mortal folk in the woods. They approached slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement would cause them to bolt back into the thicket.</p>
<p>“‘The dryad asked for the mortal’s intent, coming into the woods...but the storyteller was fully entranced in their ethereal beauty. He had never seen such a winsome being; and from that image alone, he felt his desire to create come back once more. But he did not rush to the easel, nor pick up his paints and paint the scene. No, he stayed, and learned everything he could about them.</p>
<p>“‘The two spoke of their homes, their passions. They spoke of lives lost and born anew. With every word the dryad said, the storyteller felt his curse lifting, higher and higher and higher...until, he realized, there was nothing stopping him from creating once more. By this time the moon was high into the sky, and the air had grown somewhat chilly. Before they departed, the dryad gave the storyteller a lavender bloom-- a memento of a day well spent’.” Sylas paused, their breath catching as they took the chance to gaze at the illustrations.</p>
<p>	Norwin nervously threaded his hair through his fingers, his hood still covering most of his face. He knew, at that moment, that Sylas knew the inspiration for this tale.</p>
<p>	Sylas felt their heart thumping in their chest as they read on. “‘When he returned home, he went to the writing table, absolutely sure that he was able to pen a new tale-- one better than any he had ever done before. But, as he soon found, he could not write of anything but the dryad. He wrote of their beauty, their wit; their knowledge of the plant life and of the earthly. He wrote so much, he ran out of paper and his pencil had been sharpened to an unusable nub. He then took to the easel, painting an extravagant portrait of the spirit. He painted and painted, until he ran out of paints and his brush’s bristles threatened to fall away. He realized, as the sun rose above the horizon, and he looked over the work he had done: He was’...” Sylas paused, their mind trying to catch up with the next words on the page. Their mouth opened, but no words came out.</p>
<p>	After a brief bout of silence, Norwin’s hand reached for Sylas’. “‘He was in love’,” he said, finishing the sentence upon the page.</p>
<p>	“‘And so, the young storyteller ran to the woods, fully intent on finding his new muse and telling them exactly how he felt’,” he continued, slowly looking towards Sylas, their hand in his. “‘He soon found them, gathering wildflowers in a field. Their eyes met, their gazes locked onto one another. The storyteller went to them, took their hands in his, and told them of his love’.”</p>
<p>	Sylas had dropped the papers. The parchment scattered upon the floor, but neither they nor Norwin gave them much thought. They allowed Norwin to take their other hand, their cheeks flushing bright red, and their ears flapping softly. “Norwin…” they said breathlessly, their heart roaring in their ears.</p>
<p>	“Sylas, I love you with every fiber of my being. I value you above so much else. I...wasn’t quite sure how to tell you this, so I did so in the only way I knew how,” Norwin said, his cheeks glowing similarly to Sylas’. </p>
<p>	“With a story,” they said, as to confirm it for themselves. They smiled, a wide, bright smile, as they squeezed Norwin’s hands. </p>
<p>	“Precisely,” he replied, “Now...I do believe I mentioned that I needed some help with the ending.”</p>
<p>	The aromatician chuckled, placing both hands on either side of Norwin’s face, gently brushing their thumb over his cheekbone. “I believe the dryad loves the storyteller as well.”</p>
<p>	Underneath their loving touch, Norwin’s cheeks were alight in pink. “A fine ending to such a story,” he whispered, gazing at them with utter fondness in his eyes. </p>
<p>	Sylas pulled him in, their lips pressing against the other’s. Their eyelids fluttered shut as they melted into the kiss.</p>
<p>	After a moment, they pulled away, hovering a few inches away from Norwin’s lips. “I love you so much,” they murmured, pressing their foreheads together. “I never thought you’d ever feel the same.”</p>
<p>	Norwin’s hand rose to cover Sylas’, leaning into the other Sylvan’s touch. “Never say never, my muse.”</p>
<p>	And as Sylas’ lips pressed again Norwin’s once more, he could hear the closing lines of the story in his mind.</p>
<p>	<i>The dryad was surprised-- not because they didn’t reciprocate the storyteller’s love, but because it</i> was <i>reciprocated. They gave the storyteller a kiss, filled with the affections they could not possibly begin to put into words.</i></p>
<p>	<i>From then on, the storyteller was able to write the stories he wished, for he had finally found the muse he had been searching so desperately to find.</i></p>
<p>	<i>The end; or, rather, the beginning.</i></p>
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